


This is from Matilda

by MONANIK



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Hunk was bullied, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Immigrant Allura, Keith (Voltron) Angst, M/M, Male Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Orphan Keith (Voltron), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Prostitute Lance (Voltron), Relationships to be added - Freeform, Slow Burn, Trans Pidge | Katie Holt, adventurer keith, lots of love drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-05 03:24:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MONANIK/pseuds/MONANIK
Summary: “I’m on the road.”“Oh? Where to?”There. Right there—that glint. That same glint I’d seen so many times before; a broken boy who yearns to flee, to run as far away from his hole under the bridge as possible.“Why? You wanna tag along or something?”Keith is 18 when he flees his torturous life in the USA and begins his journey of traveling the globe with nothing but some boots and a backpack to keep him company....Until an unexpected boy dives head-fist into his life and rides shotgun through the world with him on impulse alone.Along the road, through desert and ocean, he picks up one wounded soul after the other.Together they shape something he never thought he'd have, and Keith documents it all from beginning to end.





	1. Such a Perfect Place to Start

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, homies.
> 
> The title of this story is a quote from the movie "Leon".  
> I suggest watching it to understand why the title ;)
> 
> Anyhow,  
> I'll try to update this as often as possible.  
> As usual, I always finish my projects--though I can't assure you that I do it fast.
> 
> Any comments are greatly appreciated since they help motivate me :*
> 
> Chapter song: "505" by Arctic Monkeys

_Not shy of a spark._  
_A knife twists at the thought that I should fall short of the mark._  
_Frightened by the bite, though it’s no harsher than the bark._  
_Middle of adventure, such a perfect place to start_

 

-()-

 

_August 10 th, 2018_

_Florida, USA_

_-_

 

There is something distinctly peaceful about fleeing, whether it’s from a home or a hole somewhere under a bridge. Perhaps my return was expected—perhaps it was my doom—but it did something strange to my story.

I’ve been around for a while. I’ve seen much, heard more—felt the most. From Paris to India and all the way to Australia. Not a grain of sand or dirt has fled me; I’ve been around.

Around the world, to be more specific. It had started out small; some places around town, a few nearby cities, and over the years it had grown into something much bigger. Something greater. A few train-and-airplane tickets were all I needed. Most areas I managed to map out by foot, and I didn’t need to carry much. My clothes, a wallet, passport, some money and a pocket-knife were all I needed on my journey. It gave me peace of mind—the minimalism. No mentioning how much easier it was to travel with only a backpack on your back and a pair of boots on your feet. Every once in a while, I’d find a place where I could wash and dry my clothes, and occasionally I’d even volunteer to do some easy-money jobs on the side for some quick cash.

What matters is that I always found my way back to the road—to what I’d known to call home. Roots were for trees and flowers; I was no one’s necessity for life, and certainly not soft and pretty—much less colorful.

So, I settled for the road. There, I found my peace. I saw places I’d only heard of in tales of love and adventure, went to cities of movies and theatre-plays, talked to people of all races and backgrounds. Some were sad, some were lonely, some were happy. Some longed to flee like me. I could always tell by the look in their eyes right after I’d told them the story of my ongoing journey. Sometimes they’d ask me where I was heading. ‘What’s the goal?’ they’d ask. I never had an answer, so I said: ‘Everywhere.’ Because it was, ultimately, the truth. Some crooked an eyebrow, others smiled and ‘No, seriously!’. Some scoffed and lectured me on the inner and outer workings of life based on their steadfast experience from 30 years in the same town, under the same roof, around the same people.

And that day, when everything changed, nothing new had happened. Everything was going how it usually went. I was at a bar, sipping at the cheapest drink on the menu, enjoying the humming music and the chatter of tipsy people. It was a lonely night, rainy and muddy and boring. In other words: not many people were out. The bar stood mostly empty, which was why I’d entered to begin with.

On the walls hung objects from sea; fishing-nets, anchors, various oceanic creatures and a good handful of bottles with lost letters in them. My hands itched to open one up and read its contents, but I contained myself.

The whole bar was like that, themed ocean and sailor. Heavy wooden furniture stood as a contrast against the cluttered cobble-walls, and the checkered tablecloths that laid draped over dark oak looked as if they’d seen better days. Each table had a lone candle alight in the middle, casting shadows on drunken patrons. The stereos above our heads played old-school songs at a lower-than-normal volume, and the bartender was sporting a colorful ginger mustache. He spoke parts in movements, parts in tones too loud for the human sanity. Regardless, I found myself listening to his blabbering. It was even soothing in a strange way.

The door to the bar then chimed open, and I felt the wind from outside as it came to kiss the back of my neck. A few whistles could be heard and some slimy comments, but other than that the atmosphere remained the same. The ginger bearded man— _Coran,_ according to his name-plate—stopped mid-sentence and perked up.

“Ah! If it isn’t my favorite!”

That got my attention, and I straightened up, but before I could turn a smooth, high voice rang out:

“Coran! My man! How have you been?”

The carrier of the honey-doused voice came into view, and I suddenly understood why this person was the bartender’s favorite customer; the gorgeous being by my side looked like he’d been made to décor the place. Everything about him screamed _ocean._ From the sway in his hips like that of lapping waves to the smooth, caramel skin which shone like silken sand under a burning sun. But more than anything—his eyes; bluer than any ocean, any heaven I’d ever witnessed— _and I’ve been around_ , I’ve seen plenty of them.

His slim form was clad in a baby-blue silk dress that came down to mid-thigh. It fell over his shoulder on one side—purposely, I assumed. Around broad shoulders he’d draped a stuffy, white boa that glistened in golden undertones whenever it caught the light just right. His feet were clad in black army-boots—scrubbed to a shiny perfection, and on his fingers were far too many rings. Two golden hoops hung from his ears and framed soft skin and a long neck. Spotless. A mole under his left ear caught my attention.

“And who might _this_ be?” he asked in pleasant surprise, eyebrows high and eyes curiously-large. He turned towards me—throwing one beautiful, slim, caramel leg over the other.

“This one’s quite _hot…_ ” he slurred and dragged a ring-adorned finger along my forearm, “What brings you here, stranger? Care for some fun? I’ll give you a generous cut since you’ve been entertaining Coran so well for me.”

He turned and winked at the bartender who beamed in response.

“He’s important to me, ya kno’?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I took a tentative sip of my drink. A prostitute, then. That explains the clothes. This close, I could tell that he was wearing a pink-tinted lip gloss and some blue eyeshadow. Glittery and beautiful it enhanced his eyes. Short lashes cast shadows on flushed cheeks, and lips parted so deliciously-sensually. He knew exactly what he was doing, I suppose, but it would take more than that. Sex wasn’t important to me, and it wasn’t hard to get, either. If my years on the road had taught me anything it was that most people found me at least attractive enough to drunkenly drag to their apartment for the night. I always left before dawn, and I never once called the numerous numbers that had been sneaked in my care.

_I settled for something safe._

“I’m on the road.”

“Oh? Where to?”

There. Right there—that glint. That same glint I’d seen so many times before; a broken boy who yearns to flee, to run as far away from his hole under the bridge as possible.

“Why? You wanna tag along or something?”

I guess I expected the same usual. The ‘Oh, no way! Haha, I could never— I’m just curious, that’s all!’ but instead I got a very unexpected reply from the ocean boy.

“I do.”

“You do?”

“Totally. When do you leave? Do I have time to bring some clothes?”

To say that I was shocked would be an understatement. The noise around me died out, and my skin burned around the cold glass in my hand.

“You don’t even know me.”  Was all I managed to rasp out.

“Well, I’m assuming I’ll have plenty of time to get to know you. We can play 21 questions!” a grin spread across his face, “How’s that sound? A partner to goof around with while on the road. Someone to make it less boring.”

He clutched my hand in his, teeth out on perfect display, “You and me, we’re the same. I can tell.” As if to punctuate his statement he pulled down my sleeve and pointed at the faded heart-tattoo on the bone of my wrist. _Perceptive_. I’d have to be careful, I realized.

I guess that’s when my story changed; in an ocean-themed bar, staring into ocean-themed eyes.

“What’s your name, stranger?” he asked.

“Keith.”

He blinked once, eyes on his finger where it was circling the tattoo on my wrist gently. Sensually. His skin shone in the dim, golden-glow from the overhead lamps.

“Hmm… it suits you. _Keith._ ” He said it like my name was honey on his tongue, or maybe that’s just what his potential-client voice sounds like.

“Nice to meet you, Keith. The name’s Lance.” He grinned.

 

-()-

_August 10 th, 2018_

_Florida, USA_

 

-

 

Radio stations all sound the same after a while.

It becomes painfully obvious how easily trends affect the average Joe. We’re all sheep walking the same road, herded by the hungry dogs of the free market and the greedy lashes of the aristocrats. How obvious that becomes when you’ve listened to radio stations from south to north, from east to west.

Lance, however, didn’t seem to mind. To him, being an average Joe seemed just as joyful as being on the outskirts of the herd—like me.

I’ve always had a tough time fitting in. Never the sheep, neither the herder, and certainly no dog. No, rather than dog I’ve considered myself the wolf that runs along the outskirts of the herd. I’ve always been the looming threat to the sheep that consider leaving, sprinting free. One look at the starved, lone wolf chasing for meat—for a chance of survival—and you’d change your mind. You’d turn and run back to the comfort of a woolen cloud running through the greenest of fields. Being a sheep was easy, it was comfort, until it was time to get back behind fences. Behind those fences they all eyed the roaming wolf with envy, for he ran below crowns of trees under bright sunlight and through magical mists.

So, I watched him as he swayed his head from side to side in rhythm with the mundane love-song playing on the old radio. The bad weather messed with the signal, and so some parts were cut off abruptly. Static mingled with the gentle melody. Lance didn’t mind. Even when the music died out for minutes at a time, and the car drowned in silence—except for the shattering of raindrops on the windshield—he kept swaying his head. His eyes were closed, eyelashes fluttering against high cheeks. I envied him.

After their encounter at the bar, and some additional convincing on Lance’s part that I should bring him along (“At least for a few miles!”)—we took off. He’d managed to run up to his room on the second floor of the bar and grabbed a few things, kissed the bartender goodbye, and turned—walked away as if he was heading to the store for a few minutes, not potentially changing his entire life and fleeing with a stranger to never be seen again. He had not a single care in the world—trusted me more than what could possibly be normal. For all he knows I could have been a serial killer, a keen rapist, or a criminal on the run.

But he didn’t care. He smiled and waved and adjusted his grip on the far-too-big travel bag on his shoulder. He was still wearing the same clothes, except the boa had been replaced with a denim jacket.

“Aren’t we gonna play?” he asked, cutting me off mid-grumbling.

“Play what?”

“21 questions, obviously!” he clarified and turned to look at me directly, “I told you so at the bar, remember?”

I stared at the blurry road ahead and tried to come up with a valid excuse to avoid the incoming interrogation, but nothing came to mind. My silence had stretched on for too long because the next moment he was already talking, and I realized that I’d lost.

“Okay, I’ll start!” he said, “What’s your favorite word?”

The question caught me off guard. I had expected ‘favorite color?’ or ‘So, why are you on the road?’ or ‘Are you a kidnapper?’, but instead I was left hanging.

_My favorite word?_

“Altruism.”

It had flowed out of my mouth before I’d had the chance to stop it from surfacing.

“Altruism?” he questioned, “What does that mean?”

“Isn’t it my turn now?”

“Right,” he sighed, rolling his eyes, “Your turn, I guess…”

My lips twitched ever so lightly at the reaction, but I willed the grin away from surfacing as well. The radio came back to life, and the hum of a country song could be heard over the faint static.

“Hmm. Are you and the bartender related?” I asked, genuinely curious.

While the man had seemed as chipper and energetic as Lance, he’d lacked the same sensuality, the same unexplainable drama that hid just below the shiny surface. Like the _Mariana trench_ ; it remained untouched unless you went looking for it in the depths of the ocean.

“Who? Coran? Oh!” he laughed nervously, “Funny story… actually…”

There. The trench below the surface, barely visible. Terrifying.

“Well, I might as well…” he started, then cleared his throat. His eyes were fixated on the hem of his dress where slim fingers traced the sewn pattern.

“I got kicked out when I turned 15.” He told me, “My parents found out that I’m bisexual and threw me out on the street—told me I wasn’t their son no more.”

The recollection cast an ominous shadow on his delicate features, and the rain which ran over the glass by his head illuminated the glow of the golden hoops and created a halo of reflective light around his chestnut head.

“I’m sorry to hear…”

“Meh! It’s all in the past, right?” he asked, lips quirking up into his signature grin once again. Something told me he’d had this conversation before, but I didn’t press hum further.

“Anyways,” he continued, “Coran found me scavenging for food in his kitchen and took me under his wing. Been living there—over the bar—ever since. I sometimes help with the bar or work my own little _business_ to get the dough comin’.”

I could see him take a deep breath at that, and exhale through his nose heavily. One hand had flown up to fiddle with the erring and was now rubbing his ear anxiously. A nervous habit, perhaps.

“I think I understand.” I told him.

He stopped and turned to raise an inquisitive eyebrow in my direction, the strips of the running rain casting animated patterns on his skin. He seemed to ponder my comment for a while, dropped his gaze, and scrunched his eyebrows in thought—but decided against it. Luckily.

Instead, he quirked up.

“Alright, then. My turn!” a pointer-finger accompanied the statement, “Where are you from?” he asked, now fully turned in his seat. His seatbelt was left hanging behind his back.

I glanced at his eyes, looked for something dangerous—a threat—but found nothing but genuine curiosity, so I sighed and said:

“Texas.”

Two eyebrows shot up to his forehead in sudden surprise.

“Texas!?” he exclaimed, “But you don’t even have the funny accent!”

“I lost it after I left back when I was a kid.” I tried explaining.

Something in my reply must have caught his attention, but he didn’t comment on it. Again—thankfully. I had the inkling feeling that he could read more than I thought I’d let on, that he saw right through me with those trenches of his.

“Your turn…” he said, eyes locked on my profile and voice a low hum against the static and the tapping of the rain.

I shrugged off the moment and willed myself to go on. _This was a dangerous game._

“Well, right back at you. Where are _you_ from?” I heard myself ask.

“Cuba.” Came the unexpected reply.

“Cuba? Woah, really? You speak Spanish?”

“Yeah!”

It made perfect sense given his exotic appearance. I could only nod dumbly in response. He perked up again.

“Do _you_ speak any other languages?” he asked, hands now fiddling with the empty water-bottle in the holder behind the gearshift. Was he always this restless?

“I actually do…” I said, which again earned me two raised eyebrows. This time, however, he knew better than to ask and opted instead for waiting on me to give it to him.

I sighed, a smile spreading at the cleverness of the boy riding shotgun on pure impulse, “Russian and some Croatian.” I told the depths of the _Mariana_.

His eyebrows traveled further at that, now accompanied by a hanging jaw.

“What! _Croatian? Russian?_ ”

“They’re actually very similar, and my mom was apparently from the Balkan so that’s where that comes from.” I explained in haste, almost defensive in explaining the circumstance.

The fact that I’d just given out free, private information made me wince inwardly, but the oceanic boy kept up the shocked façade.

“Woah…” he breathed, jaw still slack, “Cool! Are you fluent?”

“Sort of… I can hold an everyday conversation, if that’s what you mean.”

That appeared to satisfy him, but his eyes remained wide with curiosity before his features relaxed once more and his eyes turned to gaze out the window. The sharp profile moved with his words:

“I know you’ve got this whole ‘mystery guy’ thing goin’ on,” he said, “But I solemnly swear that I’ll one day make you tell me everything.”

It sounded vaguely like a threat, but I chose instead to pretend that this flamboyant boy in my passenger seat was nothing more than just that—a soul to share my journey with.

Perhaps some company won’t hurt, right?

 

 


	2. Down Those Country Lanes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: "Castle on the Hill" by Ed Sheeran

_And I've not seen the roaring fields in so long_  
_I know I've grown_  
_but I can't wait to go home_  
  
_I'm on my way_  
_driving at 90 down those country lanes_

* * *

 

_August 23 rd, 2018_

_Somewhere on the road_

_-_

There are many things I don’t know about Lance McClain, other than that he’s obsessed garlic knots, has a strange love for mismatched socks, and an even stranger infatuation with my hair.

That he’s intuitive, careful, thoughtful and ludicrously ecstatic all at the same time. That he loves children, had a rough childhood, fled from a crammed home out onto the cold and unforgiving streets, and that he once fell too hard in love with a girl that left him breathless for air.

(“She didn’t just steal my heart, she took my lungs, too, bro.”) He’d told me, with just a _smidge_ of misery in tone. Could have almost fooled me.

 

Still, there are many things I don’t know about Lance McClain.

What’s worse, he knows even less about me.

 

I’ve always been a secretive person; never one to give away too much, show too much. Yet—with him—I felt OK with the thought of finally letting go, of forgetting the _too much_ and embracing the _just enough._

 

Lance tries, for sure. The boy won’t give up his search, true to his words, yet he still doesn’t even know half of the story. He doesn’t know about the girl with the pigtails, or the man on the train.

 

Perhaps one day I’ll give him a hint, a glimpse into what was, but here and now it will remain forever shielded by iron gates and heavy chains. Nothing on Earth could make me spill it all, even when snippets slip in the spaces between my fingertips.

Some things cannot be controlled, others take no need for it.

* * *

 

_September 4 th, 2018_

_25 days on the road, somewhere in Idaho_

-

 

On our 25th day on the road, me and the oceanic boy, we discovered something thrashing about on the side of the road.

He was a burly figure of both height and width, with arms heavy enough to lift boulders, it seemed.

His hair, a rich brown, clung to the puffiness of his cheeks in wet streaks—soaked by the drizzling rain. With his arm wrapped lazily around a melting cardboard cutout that read ‘ _California, or somewhere nearby’_. At the bottom of it a new piece of text had been added, running off in its freshness and vulnerability to the gentle rain; _anywhere will do at this point,_ it read.

With every heave of his chest the cardboard smudged further, and the shield it once served ass against the gusty winds was slowly disintegrating into a puddle of slum on the pavement.

 

“We have to do something, poor thing!” my companion cooed next to me, and so I promptly stopped only briefly so as to carry the slumbering man into the minivan.

 

 

To onlookers this display would, perhaps, serve as quite unnerving—were it not for the fact that the by-passing cars were all driven by half-aware adults, most of whom were seriously considering dumping a kid or two out the window for the kind gentleman and his whore to drag into their van.

 

 

“Jeez!” he wheezed, half-heartedly attempting to aid me in our spontaneous kidnapping, “This guy’s _huge!_ ”

 

I couldn’t help but chortle at the comment, to which I earned myself a raised eyebrow—for a moment—before clarity erupted like a supernova on his delicate features.

 

“Oh, you filthy, filthy dog!” he barked, though the splitting—ever expanding—grin on his lips spoke volumes, “Someone ought to bathe you in holy water!”

 

We adjusted our seats, so their newcomer fit without the threat of suffocating, though it seemed the replacement finally rustled something in the hitchhiker’s head. A deep, brown, eye cracked open slowly before the other joined and swiftly morphed a disgruntled man just awoken into a mortified boy who’d been dragged off into the back of a stranger’s car.

 

“Wher—” he started and sat up, snapping his head every way, paling in horror. He scanned the two of us, up and down and side to side, before the dark maple of his eyes found purchase in Lance’s, “Where am I? Who are you?!”

 

Lance reached out a hand and made a soft up-and-down motion, palm flat, as if to physically lower their passenger’s sudden pulse-spike.

 

“Relax-!” he drawled out, almost slurred, “You’re goo’, you’re goo’.” He clarified with a raise of delicately plucked eyebrows.

 

“We’re headin’ towards Cali and saw how absolutely miserable you looked, sleeping on the road, so we picked you up—quite literally—” he cast a glance and a smirk my way, _I ignored it_ , “—and thought we should drop you off in Cali since your _barely-there_ sign said you’d like us to.” He explained to the confused passenger, “What’s your name, fella?” he added.

 

“Hunk…” breathed the stranger, voice strained with distrust.

 

“Hunk, huh.” Lance chuckled, “That a nickname, or…?” his voice dropped as he slurred: “’Cause I wouldn’t mind finding out on my own if you give me a few minutes…”

 

Hunk seemed absolutely mortified by the mere idea.

 

“Uh, no, It’s, uh, my actual name…” he said, thumbs dancing around each other, cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

 

Lance visibly deflated.

 

“Great. Another straight.” He stated with a dramatic roll of his eyes and a sigh so heavy I feared he’d rapture a lung, “So, what brings you out here, _bro.”_ he said, mockery evident in the smugness of his wording.

 

Our new buddy appeared unaffected, possibly even missed the subtle switch entirely.

 

“I, uh, I’m heading… somewhere…” he said, voice a distant whisper, drowned out by the thunder in the clouds behind us and the roar of the engine. A pothole made us all jump in our seats.

 

“Sounds familiar.” I said, breaking the heavy silence.

 

I was planning to end it at that. To call it a day, drive this poor guy out to Cali, and then swiftly drop him off never to see faces again. Lance, on the other hand, had taken the liberty upon himself to adjust a thing or two in my plan.

 

“Alright… then… wanna tag along?” he asked.

 

My head snapped his way so fast I _swore_ I could hear something crack, quite audibly, _if I may say so myself_.

 

“Hold up! What?” I bit out, “This is _my_ car and _my_ trip!”

 

“Well, not anymore! I’m a part of this now!”

 

“Yeah, _a part of it!_ ”

 

As we burned holes through each other’s heads, a third party spoke up from the backseat in a hushed, hesitant tone—his fingers still dancing around each other. A nervous tick, perhaps.

 

“Uh, guys, I-I don’t mean to impose. Really! You can just drop me off wherever.” Said the big guy, now both confused and terrified.

 

Another silence in the space they occupied, and the windows slowly fogged with their combined breathing. After what seemed like an eternity, I yielded.

 

“Fine…”

 

A whoop of delight and a sigh mingled in the space between them for a moment, before a now-satisfied Lance turned towards our startled buddy.

 

“Alright, Hunk! Since you’re stuck with us now—”

 

_Way to not sound like a fucking human trafficker, Lance._

 

“—How about we all get to know each other a little better, eh?” he asked, a grin plastered on fine features.

 

I steeled my gaze on the road ahead, and with a heavy breath decided to tune out the incoming interrogation. The inevitable, really, when it comes to Lance McClain. Out before me, and right next to me on either side, were never-ending planes of fields rich. A house or factory here and there decorated the otherwise empty grounds. As seasons shifted, so did the hue of the greenery before us. The clouds up ahead had begun to clear, and through the cracks faint sunrays beamed; cast light here and there as if it were spotlights. Bright patches could be seen all the way down to the horizon. It created a beautiful pattern of contrast on the land before us, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

 

Still, despite my well-made shield, some things slipped through.

 

“…like, super moody all the time, and it’s a rarity to hear him utter more than, like, two sentences at once!” Lance complained, brows now pinched into an impressive frown. His hands moved about in the space between the front seats, wrist flicking every-which-way in an exaggerated fashion.

 

“But he’s, like, super cool! I mean once, this _huge_ spider crawled in to our car, and I, like, totally flipped out! But Keith, he just picked it up! Just like that! With his _bare hands_ and threw it out the window! Can you believe that?!”

 

His voice had reached volumes unhealthy to the human ear, certainly, for it managed to break through even _my_ steel-barrier and infested my peaceful thoughts. One glance in the review mirror told me Hunk, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind quite as much. On the contrary, his eyes were blown wide and in his hands he held a—

 

_Wait…_

 

“Seriously?! Why are you giving out our food like we’re a fucking charity organization?”

 

My outburst startled them enough for the both of them to swiftly turn towards me. Hunk, with a look of guilt, and Lance with a look of pure disgrace.

“How _rude!_ Seriously? The guy’s been laying on the wet pavement! In the rain! For hours! And you can’t even spare him one sandwich?! What’s wrong with you?!”

 

A slap accompanied each accusation, and I yelped as it smacked hard against bare skin once, twice and three times before I finally managed to grab the offending appendage in a—perhaps _too rough_ —grip.

 

Lance cried out in pain and started pulling his own hand, trying in vain to free it, as he muttered incoherent apologies.

 

My vice like grip, and Lance’s sudden vulnerability, made me realize just how much Lance’s constant chatter must mean to Hunk. Traveling with a quiet, grumbling stranger who—to your knowledge—dragged you into his van without much resistance, must be terrifying—would it not have been for the kind, sweet, young man with the pretty smile chatting your ears off.

 

“Sorry for eating your food, man…” Hunk piped up quietly from the backseat.

 

I sighed in defeat for what felt like the hundredth time. Resigning to just giving in and letting Lance do whatever the fuck he wanted. _May we all starve,_ I thought begrudgingly.

 

“It’s OK, Hunk. Forget about it.”

 

One last grimace was sent my way, before the oh-so-kind boy with the pretty smile resumed his chattering.

 

 

And so it went.

 


End file.
